Spirits of Ash and Foam (10 page)

 

 

Ten
P.M.

What am I going to do all night?
'Bastian thought. Or maybe he said it aloud. When you're a ghost and all your dialogue is basically psychic anyway, it can occasionally be problematic telling the difference.

Rain said, “I suppose it'll get pretty boring sitting here, watching me sleep.”
Maybe a little creepy, too,
she thought—though she didn't like thinking that way. She had
never
placed her Papa 'Bastian and “creepy” in the same sentence before. The fact that he now appeared to be less than ten years older than Rain wasn't helping. “I guess … I guess you could put on the
zemi
and go for a walk or something.”

'Bastian instantly brightened at the idea. “I'd like that.”

“But you need to be supercareful. You're invisible; the
zemi
isn't. You can't let anyone see it floating down the street.”

“I'll be careful.”

“And don't forget to be home before sunrise.
Way
before sunrise.”

“Curfew. Sunrise. Yes, sir, General Raindrop, sir!” He saluted. But she didn't find it as amusing this time.

She took the armband off and slowly handed it to him. He placed it on his wrist. Then she crossed to her bedroom door, opened it slightly and looked around. “The coast is clear,” she said. “I'll go down with you and open the back door.”

He nodded.

Suddenly, she froze. She wheeled on him and blurted out, “I'm supposed to pack up my stuff and move upstairs to your old room on Wednesday. Is that okay?”

He looked stunned for a moment and then thoughtful. Then he said a bunch of things she couldn't hear. She shook her head. He smiled. It was a relief that even as the dangerous and dashing young Dark Man, he was still capable of her Papa 'Bastian's patented Old Man Twinkle. Almost as big a relief as knowing he was okay with the move.

Just to be sure, she said, “Nod if it's okay.”

He nodded.

She beamed. They headed down the hallway.

At the back door, off the kitchen, Rain pointed down at the doggy-door installed ten years ago when 'Bastian had brought home a mutt named Guillermo that Rain remembered slightly better as an imaginary friend/ghost than as a living animal. Guillermo was hit by a car only a month after arriving at the Inn, but because Rain had claimed he was still around, she never needed, wanted or asked for another pet, which, frankly, was a relief to Iris, who didn't want to risk the potential liability, should a dog bite one of their guests. (I genuinely like Iris, but she does have her blind spots.)

Rain whispered, “You should be able to get the
zemi
back inside through that.”

'Bastian nodded.
Clever girl.
She opened the door for him and watched him sneak away.

The wrought-iron gate off the Nitaino's back courtyard presented a bit of a challenge. However, with a little care, 'Bastian was able to slip the
zemi
between two iron bars, while he himself phased through like smoke.

Then the late, great 'Bastian Bohique went for a walk.

 

 

Eleven
P.M.

He walked, and he walked.

As 'Bastian passed under a streetlamp, a car sped by without warning. He tried hiding the
zemi
behind his back—then realized how useless that was. Fortunately, the car drove on, its occupant oblivious to the floating snake charm. 'Bastian exhaled another airless breath.
I do have to be more careful.

He stuck to the shadows as much as possible, but truthfully, the little lanes were all but deserted anyway. Rain hadn't lied when she told Judith that Old Town wasn't the hub of San Próspero's social scene—particularly on a Monday night. It was too far from the ocean, and parking on its skinny cobblestone streets was a nightmare. During the day, Old Town's quaint shops and authentic cuisine attracted an economy-boosting minihorde of tourists, but they generally scattered by seven or eight o'clock at the latest. Now 'Bastian pretty much had these streets to himself.

At first, with Rain's cautions ringing in his ears, this was a relief.'Bastian had never been a man uncomfortable in his own company. The full moon directly above his head seemed a charming companion, and his spirits were light. But as he meandered without purpose down Rue de Saint-Germain, the thought occurred that this solitary state—in what promised to be night after night of walks just like this—was no longer a matter of choice or occasion. This was his “life” from now on. A few hours between sunset and bedtime with his granddaughter, and then no one but himself and the moon. (And on some nights, not even the moon.)

Which perhaps explains why he ultimately found himself walking down Old Plantation Road toward the graveyard.

 

 

Twelve
A.M.

The main gate at San Próspero Cemetery was closed but unlocked. 'Bastian couldn't open it, of course. Nor could it keep him out. As with the courtyard gate at the Inn, it simply required a bit of careful maneuvering to walk through it with the
zemi
.

He was no longer meandering. He knew exactly where he wanted to go. He hadn't been present for his own funeral—after all, it had taken place during the day—but he knew where he was buried. Because that's where his heart was buried too. He beelined—walking right
through
various headstones—to
the
headstone. A single slab of carved granite marking two graves, one old, one brand-new. The inscription was simple:
ROSE & SEBASTIAN BOHIQUE. LOVING PARTNERS. LOVING PARENTS.

He tried to touch, to caress the stone, as he had touched, caressed it so many times since Rose's passing. Of course, his hand passed right through. He sat down on the ground and was momentarily distracted by the realization that he wasn't so much sitting on the soft earth as hovering more or less even with it, as harlie said, out of habit. The concern was fleeting. He spoke out loud to his late wife, asking if she was here, if she was near. If maybe, just maybe, she might be willing to appear. (Had he meant for his appeals to rhyme like that? I'm honestly not sure.)

In any case, Rose Linda Nitaino Bohique remained absent.

He missed her and wondered even now, with absolute proof of life after death, whether he would ever see her again.
Or has she found her peace … while I'm condemned to
this
for eternity?
He felt like crying but was stumped by the question
Can a ghost shed tears?

I watched him from beneath the bougainvillea-covered arch that separated the graves of men and women from the Pet Cemetery. I felt a canine need to ease his pain with my presence and was about to pad over to him. Maq intervened to stop me.

Or maybe he wasn't even aware of 'Bastian. Who knows with Maq? He waved a split half of guava under my snout and lured me deeper into the animal graveyard. We both sat—appropriately enough on this night—by the little bronze plaque that a softhearted Alonso had purchased for Guillermo. I had been quite fond of Guillermo both before and after his death. He wasn't too bright, but his rear had a delightful chocolaty scent. I was sorry to see him move on, but after young Rain had refused, for her parents' sake, to acknowledge his ghostly presence, it was clear it was time for him to go.

Maq placed my half of the guava on the ground in front of me. I smooshed my face into it, chewing and licking up the sweet fruit, seeds and all. Maq raised his half up to his face and smooshed as well. When we were through, we smiled at each other, two gooey, smooshy messes.

Then, out of nowhere, Maq said, “
Hura-hupia
owes me a quarter.”

 

 

One
A.M.

Out in the Florida Straits, on the edge of the Bermuda Triangle,
Hura-hupia
was forming out of wind and spray.

The moon took no notice, but the artificial satellites of men would register what briefly appeared to be the formation of a hurricane. Of course, it wasn't just any hurricane but a vintage hurricane: 1945's Santa Julia, last seen only the night before by Rain, Charlie and 'Bastian when it had tried to destroy them all by bringing down their haunted bomber off the coast of Tío Samuel. Julia had been thwarted then. She did not wish to be thwarted now.

Lightning and thunder overhead spooked a pod of dolphins that dove deep and swam away as Julia moved toward Sycorax Island with forty to fifty mile per hour winds as her harbingers. Then, as multiple urgent calls were being exchanged between the offices of the Weather Prediction Center, the National Hurricane Center and the National Weather Service, the storm coalesced into a human woman with copper skin and black hair the exact same color as Rain's. With eyes that burned red in the dark, Julia stepped down gently on the shore of Sycorax. To the distant authorities, the sudden nightmare of a storm had vanished as quickly as it had appeared. Meanwhile, the true danger walked toward the excavation and entered the ancient bat cave.

There,
Hura-hupia
encountered the
Hupia.
He was just out of sight of the entrance, sucking the juice from a guava of his own while waiting for a more substantial meal: another Pale Tourist (or some such). Thinking he had found his prey, the
Hupia
moved to attack Julia, but she shook her head with contempt, and in that instant, the
Hupia
recognized his old acquaintance, though she looked nothing at all like the woman he remembered. It was the contempt itself that was so familiar. It radiated off her in unmistakable waves.

She made her way into the dark depths of the cave. Curious, he followed. (Neither creature required light to see.) She paused beside a small saltwater pool, only three feet in diameter but deep enough to reach the ocean. She scanned the surrounding area—the same area that had been searched rather ineffectively by the two deputy constables earlier that day. But
Hura-hupia
soon found the item she had sought: a sealed gourd jar that had fallen to the ground and rolled behind a medium-sized stalagmite. As she picked it up and studied the ring of nine carved bats that decorated its circumference, the
Hupia
retreated a yard or two. Then she dropped the gourd into the pool, where it sank away. This pleased her companion, who drew closer.

Then, in a language I barely recall, Julia told the
Hupia
to guard the second
zemi.
He seemed disinterested at first, until she pointed out how his own survival might depend upon it.

 

 

Two
A.M
.

On the other side of the island, the
Bootstrap
was anchored just offshore, and another, equally nefarious conversation was taking place between Callahan and his employer, Mr. Setebos.

Callahan, on yet another burner cell phone, listened to Setebos, who had called to ask if the still unidentified Pale Tourist was connected to Callahan and their enterprise in any way.

The question set Callahan's teeth on edge. This was due in part to Setebos' crisp English accent, which bothered the big Aussie just on general principle. But he also wasn't fond of admitting errors, either in judgment or execution. So very begrudgingly, Callahan admitted, “Yeah, I subcontracted the search. But don't lose any sleep, mate. The man knows not to talk.”

“He's not talking. He's dead.”

This raised Callahan's spirits a bit. Now he
really
wouldn't have to pay Cash. “No worries, then.”

“You're not even curious how he died?”

“Is it relevant?”

“How could it not be relevant?” Setebos sounded a trifle exasperated.

“Fair enough. How'd he die?”

“I don't know yet.”

“Right. Let me know when you find out.”

“Me? Don't you think finding out is
your
job?”

“You're paying me to find
zemis
. Not to play Sherlock Holmes.”

“But he was
your
man.”

“There's nothing to connect us. Nothing to lead the cops to me, let alone you.” Then a new thought occurred. “I get it. You're worried we have competition. You're thinking that's who took him out.”

“Actually, that
hadn't
occurred to me. But if that's true, and if he lost the
zemi
—”

The cold fury in Setebos' voice was evident, and Callahan could almost
see
his next fifty-thousand-dollar payment flying out a porthole. He backpedaled quickly. “Let's not get ahead of ourselves, chief. I'm personally taking over the search tonight. Give me a few days—a week—before we start panicking.”

“I'll give you
two
weeks
,
” Setebos said. “After that, I'm going to have to seriously consider other options. And other operatives.”

Callahan was about to protest, but Setebos had rung off. It was just as well.
Never sound needy. Nothing makes you lose the money's respect faster than sounding needy.
It was one of his axioms.

 

 

Three
A.M.

Constable Thibideaux headed into Dr. Strauss' cramped coroner's office beside the morgue in the basement of San Próspero Island Hospital.

Strauss was stirring heavy cream into his coffee with a chicory stick. He offered Thibideaux a cup, but the constable declined. “It's too late for me. I drink that, and I'll never get to sleep.”

“So you're sleeping now?” Strauss asked, glancing at the clock over the door.

Jean-Marc shrugged. “I don't need more reasons not to, Josef. Like wondering what caused the death of our Tourist.”

Strauss tapped at his keyboard and maneuvered his mouse, bringing up his preliminary report on this year's Jean Doe #2, a.k.a. the Pale Tourist, a.k.a. (to Callahan) Cash. He printed out the document, though he glanced at neither screen nor hard copy, as he spoke: “I don't have much for you yet. They're backed up in Miami, and we won't get final labs until Monday. Next Monday.”